Page 41 of Ruthless Lord
“This depot’s a major part of our operations. It’s the heart of our distribution center. If someone’s sniffing around—” He moves to grab my shoulder, but I slap his hand and shove it away.
He stares at me in surprise.
“I’m going back to my wedding,” I say softly, meeting his gaze. “My wife’s waiting for me.”
“I didn’t know you care about that.”
“Now you do.”
“I thought I was doing you a favor. Weddings aren’t usually your thing. Especially not your own wedding.”
I start walking again. I don’t want to get into a conflict with Luca. He’s one of my closest friends, but I have new priorities. Myworld tilted and shifted, and I can’t pretend like I haven’t started thinking about my future in a completely different light.
“Normally, you’re right, but I don’t want to fuck this one up.”
Luca seems thoughtful as he matches my pace back outside. I expect him to chew into me, and he’d be right to. Weddings are important, but this depot break-in is absolutely huge.
“You like the girl, don’t you?”
I shake my head. “It’s not her.”
“No? I guess you’re rushing back to your wedding for some other reason then?”
“I liked the food.”
“There’s no shame in liking your wife. Honestly, most of the time, it’s encouraged.”
“She’s a responsibility.” I open my truck door. “Just like what happened in there. I’ll find whoever did it, Luca. I’ll get back whatever they took. And I’ll make sure the whole fucking city knows they can’t fuck with our Famiglia like that again.” I meet his gaze and hold it. “I promise you that.”
“I believe you.” He seems amused as he pats the hood of my truck. “Tell the new wife I said hello and send my apologies. Somebody’s got to clean this up tonight.”
I start the engine. Right now, it’ll be him.
But in the morning?
This shitstorm’s going to be all mine.
Chapter 13
Charlie
Icarefully cover a vintage radio in bubble wrap and lower it into a box.
All around me, my little apartment in the Westwood Manor house is a total mess. Things are strewn across the floor. My clothes are heaped in haphazard piles in my bedroom, and books are thrown into hastily constructed towers. One wrong move, and I’m pretty sure a storm of them is going to bury me.
Not that I’d mind.
Killed by reading material? Not the worst way to go.
Despite everything, I didn’t think this day would come. Even after I walked down the aisle, put the ring on my finger, and said all the vows, somehow, I never really believed that Grandfather would make me move out.
Except the day after the wedding, when I woke up in my own bed with the taste of my husband still on my lips, I found a note in my grandfather’s messy handwriting waiting in my living room.
Pack your things. You’re leaving tomorrow.
There’s no arguing with a piece of paper. There’s no reasoning with it, begging it, pleading with it. Paper doesn’t give a crap what you think, much less what it says. There’s a reason Grandfather’s little notes are so famous.
Once an order arrives on paper, there’s no turning back.
